None but the Dead (34 page)

Aware that the camp might be a target for enemy bombers, a false radar station had been set up on the northern shore to draw enemy aircraft away, along with air-raid shelters at Lopness for the
real camp.

She eventually located the picture. Small and embedded in a page of text, it featured an indentation in an otherwise flat field, fronted by what looked like a long narrow opening. Below were the
words, ‘A former air-raid shelter’.

Rhona checked to see when the pamphlet had been printed, but couldn’t find a date. She hadn’t recalled any mention of the presence of underground shelters, but then again, Sam, the
most obvious person to know about such things, had disappeared shortly after the search for Inga had begun.

She returned to the map and, using a first-hand account of the camp layout, plotted the position of the air-raid shelter on it.

It was then it struck her.

If it still existed, the bunker in the picture lay midway between Sam Flett’s place and the old Muir farmhouse, where the Ranger now lived.

The hotel bar was busy, although McNab got the impression none of those in the room had any wish to stand next to him.

They blame me that Inga hasn’t been found. And if you bring in a detective from Glasgow, who’s supposed to know how to deal with such a thing, then you’re entitled to blame
(and despise) the said detective when they fail
.

The realization of this made him want to punch something, or alternatively take the edge off his failure, the way he knew worked. McNab’s eyes moved to the whisky bottles, of which there
were many.

I could sample them all and still not understand what happened after Inga Sinclair left her house on that fateful morning
.

In a city, her every move would have been recorded. He would have used that, thinking it was his wonderful intuition that had solved the case. When it had been CCTV.

Here, without it, I’m crap
.

A nearby wall poster advertising the bonfire and fireworks on Cata Sand only added to his general feeling of angst. Regardless of where he was, McNab hated bonfires and fireworks in equal
measure, although he could think of a few folk in Glasgow he would cheerfully offer up as a guy to the flames.

Torvaig, coming to ask for his order, caught him eyeing up the poster. ‘You planning on coming to the party, Sergeant?’

When McNab shot him a horrified look in response, Torvaig shrugged his shoulders. ‘And here I was about to offer you the loan of a pair of wellies.’

‘It’s a weird place to have a bonfire,’ McNab said.

‘The local firemen organize it on the sands because it’s safer than on land. It’ll be a big blaze, with lots of free food and drink.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

‘Suit yourself. Have you eaten?’

McNab shook his head.

‘I’ll get you something.’

McNab watched Torvaig go through to the kitchen, at the same time sensing that their exchange had been both watched and listened to. When he swivelled round to face his audience, his defiant
look was met by some, while the rest resumed their own conversations and ignored his challenge.

McNab pointedly lifted his pint and headed for his usual table at the window.

Looking out into the darkness, he thought back to the night Inga’s father had squared up to him over buying Jones a drink. Had he known then that his daughter was on the island? McNab
didn’t think so. He suspected he’d heard the story about Jones, and was looking for someone to pick on.

So how had he found out about Inga? Had it been a chance remark in the pub? A discussion of the body that had been unearthed in the schoolhouse yard? The fact that they’d thought one of
the local kids had taken the skull? A mention of Inga’s name?

It didn’t matter how he’d discovered that the mother and daughter were on the island. But once he had, McNab had no doubt he would have decided to do something about it. McNab
recalled Inga’s mother’s terrified expression when he’d told her he’d seen her former partner.

McNab had a list of folk he hated and paedos and wife-beaters came pretty well at the top. Ironic that, in this case, one should be pitted against the other.

And now one of them was dead.
And maybe not the right one
.

The mother had told him that her partner had never hurt Inga. When McNab had met the child, he’d thought her bright and well-adjusted. He had experience of children that had been abused by
their parents and Inga’s behaviour and openness hadn’t suggested a frightened child to him. Of course, that could all be down to her mother. Or the father had made sure that the child
had never witnessed the violence.

Families, he decided, were strange beasts. Personal relationships even more so.

Which is why I avoid them
.

At that moment his mobile, discovering a signal, sprang into life. McNab, thinking it would be work related, answered it without checking the identity of the caller.

‘Michael?’ Freya’s voice sounded tentative, with just enough hope to cause him concern.

‘Freya. How are you?’ Even to his own ears, his response sounded lame.

She was hesitant in her answer. McNab had been with Freya long enough to be aware that she always tried to be honest.

I’m about to be dumped
.

He tried to get in first. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.

There’s no signal and it’s been flat-out work.’ He added, ‘I told you it would be like this,’ for good measure.

Like it was her fault!

‘I understand.’ A bleak silence followed, filled by McNab’s troubled, frantic thoughts.

Then she said, ‘I’ve decided to go home to Newcastle.’

‘Why?’ He hadn’t expected this.

‘I think I’ll work better on my thesis there.’

McNab heard the unspoken words,
without remembering the fire and Leila’s death
.

He realized then that being with him had probably made that more difficult, which was why Freya hadn’t wanted him to stay at her place. And all the while, he’d thought he’d
been the one to make that decision.

‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ he said.

For the best? Fuck’s sake
.

‘Look after yourself, Michael.’

She ended the call before he could respond.

McNab sat for a moment, surprised by the strength of his feelings, the biggest of which, he realized, was relief. Then he considered calling Rhona.

Why? To tell her I’m free and available? Like she would care
.

As Hege entered the bar, all heads turned. Well, all male heads, anyway, reminding McNab just how attractive she was. She made for the bar without glancing in his
direction.

McNab, nonplussed, wondered if she’d spotted him, or alternatively didn’t want to show she had. He headed for the counter with his empty glass and, noting her presence, offered to
buy her a drink.

Her surprise at his sudden appearance obvious, or pretended, she said hesitantly, ‘That’s very kind, Detective Sergeant McNab. A whisky and water, please.’

‘Any one in particular?’ he asked.

‘Highland Park.’

McNab immediately added one for himself to the order.

Aware now that all eyes in the room were on them, McNab suggested she might join him at the window seat. Hege provided a perfect study of a woman who has no wish to accept such a proposal, but
was doing so under embarrassed duress.

Reaching said table, McNab set the drinks down and slipped into his seat, facing the room, allowing Hege the advantage of her face not being visible to the remainder of the room.

‘
Slàinte
,’ he offered.

She touched her glass to his and said something indecipherable, which he assumed to be Norwegian. McNab sampled his whisky and decided that it tasted like nectar.

‘So, what did you want to talk to me about?’

She waited a moment, then lowering her voice, said, ‘I’d rather not talk about it here. Maybe we could keep it until later, perhaps in your room?’

McNab thought he must be hearing things, so strove for clarity.

‘You want to come up to my room?’

She gave a sideways glance. ‘Not yet. Later.’

McNab sampled more of his drink. ‘So what do we do now, while we’re here?’

‘Have a drink and talk about normal things.’

Normal things. McNab had forgotten what they were.

Hege turned out to be good company, made even better by the whisky they both consumed. She told him about Norway, and the little fishing village she came from. How she’d travelled over
most of Scotland, but was fond of the northern isles, in particular Sanday.

‘The people are very welcoming.’

‘You think so?’ McNab said.

‘It’s different for you. As a policeman,’ she added.

‘How?’ he challenged.

She considered her response. ‘In small communities there are many secrets. Here, as in Norway. Unlike in cities, like Glasgow, everyone knows everyone else’s business, but we keep
our own counsel, particularly with outsiders.’

McNab realized she didn’t know Glasgow, where you were asked your business at every bus stop.

‘You’re not an outsider, then?’

She allowed silence to invade for a moment, before answering.

‘I thought I was, until all this happened.’ She smiled, as though they were discussing something much more light-hearted. McNab wondered if it was for the benefit of the room, or for
him in particular.

‘I have to go.’ She rose, her expression indicating that this was awkward, yet necessary.

McNab played along, and in a moment she was gone and speaking to those in the room as she departed, her voice so relieved that they knew her sojourn with the ‘Glasgow detective’ had
been under duress and nothing more.

Hunger beset her as she locked the door of the heritage centre. Having boasted that she’d planned to cook for herself, she’d singularly failed to buy any
ingredients and the community shop now lay in darkness. She could of course, even at this late hour, take up McNab’s offer and head for the hotel.

That thought lasted seconds, because there was an alternative.

Magnus answered her call almost immediately. When Rhona explained her dilemma, he told her to come straight over to the croft house. ‘Erling gave me the go-ahead to make use of everything
in the fridge, and the cupboards for that matter.’

‘Is Erling with you?’

‘He took the police launch to Kirkwall. Someone he wanted to see.’

Relieved, Rhona said she’d be there shortly.

Packing the box containing the accumulated material from earlier, Rhona set off northwards. The night was clear, the moon on the wane but still bright enough to lay a filter over the flat
landscape. To someone conditioned to the claustrophobic nature of a city, with its tall, tightly packed buildings and swarms of people, such a landscape could generate a feeling of exposure and
fear.

Rhona had watched McNab’s reaction to the emptiness of the place, noting his obvious discomfort. She’d appreciated that many of the rules he played by, as a detective, were virtually
unusable here. Yet McNab had persisted, and it had paid off. In terms of Jamie Drever and the skull, at least.

But if we have to leave here without finding the child
. . .

Exiting Lady Village, she was now on the road that ran along the northern shore of Cata Sand. Even in poor light, the giant bonfire was visible, rising like a Trojan horse from
the vast expanse of flat shallow water that surrounded it. Rhona had voiced the thought to PC Tulloch that celebrating Guy Fawkes seemed bizarre on an island that was a world and centuries away
from the political intrigue that had begun the tradition.

‘I think it’s probably more a Viking challenge to the oncoming winter,’ he’d told her. ‘We, the people of Sanday, plan to be here next spring.’

And they’ll do that by knowing who their neighbours are, and watching out for them
.

The sea off Lopness had roughened, bringing waves to crash over the sunken destroyer. In the far distance were the scattered lights of the houses that peppered the northeastern spit of the
island. Rhona sought the one that was Sam’s croft and spotted it.

Minutes later she was at the gate.

Magnus must have been looking out for her, because his tall figure came along the grassy track behind a bouncing torch beam. Rhona shouted a greeting, then went round to the boot to retrieve her
box.

‘You didn’t bring food with you?’ Magnus said with a laugh.

‘No,’ she assured him. ‘Just something I’d like you to take a look at.’

The room was as she remembered it. The two Orkney chairs standing either side of the fireplace. The curtained box bed. The only difference from her last visit was the fire blazing in the grate,
where before, Sam’s absence had seen it go out.

‘Good smells,’ she said.

‘We aim to please. Take a seat, unless you want to show me the contents of the box first?’ he added.

‘I’m so hungry I was close to eating the contents on my way over here,’ Rhona confessed.

‘Then food comes first.’

Twenty minutes later, and much the better for an ample helping of Orkney beef stew, Rhona thanked the cook for saving her life.

‘Whatever you were doing in the heritage centre, must have been hungry work.’

‘You saw me there?’

‘I passed the car on my way home and realized you, unlike me, hadn’t stopped for the day. Do you want to show me what you were working on?’

Minutes later they’d cleared the table of dishes, and Rhona had spread out her collage in its place. Magnus listened intently as she described the path she thought had been taken, first by
Ola all those years ago, then by her grandniece.

‘You think history was repeating itself?’ Magnus said.

‘Sam was right to think Inga was in danger. We know that much.’

‘Because of the flower,’ Magnus said.

‘McNab didn’t like that,’ she told him.

‘I can imagine.’

Magnus was observing her with an inquisitive eye.

‘I take it you didn’t come here to talk about the flowers?’